A Bard's Beginning, Before Helgen
by SashaSeer
Summary: Everyone has a beginning, every story has a starting chapter, every play has an opening scene. But more than a beginning, starting, or opening, everything has something before. This is such a story for Jeand; Dean at the Bards College, and Last Dragonborn. This is before Miraak, before Harkon, before Alduin, Before Helgen... Prologue to the Bardic Edda collection...
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer; I don't own Skyrim or the Elder Scrolls, and I am making no profit from these works. These stories were inspired by Morninglight's Ysraneth's Tales series.

Chapter 0:

/

"_'No Shouting match between Dragon and Man… No fire or fury did this battle entail…'_ now how did Jeand and I say the rest went?" Viarmo whispered to himself as he tried to prepare for the coming 'Burning of King Olaf' festival. Whilst it was true that the late Jarl Elisif, bless her soul, had made the burning of the effigy a weekly event, the actual festival itself was still an annual event within the city of Solitude. The distinction between the two events is that where, in the past, the festival marked the admittance of any new bards via the actual burning of the effigy, in the years since it's almost banning, it has grown into a day long event that celebrates not only the bards, both new and old, any additions to the Poetic Edda from the previous year, but also a recounting of the very verse that Viarmo had recited to Jarl Elisif so long ago, and ends with the burning of a much more spectacular effigy, one adorned with a coat from the current high ranking military official within Solitude (whether it was donated to the college, or stolen as part of a tradition amongst the initiates, is never really a problem either way).

Recent events, however, have made things a tad difficult for the Headmaster. Memory being not what it used to be, Viarmo had conceded to writing the… 're-envisioned' portions of King Olaf's Verse within the book itself, so as he wouldn't need to strain himself to remember the exact details (as well as blow it to the entirety of Solitude that what they'd been listening to year after year was, in fact, a lie). Yet, after another bedlam job by the Thieves Guild, the book had been stolen. Luckily for the College, Jeand, the Dean of Skalds, who had originally retrieved the verse when he'd been an initiate, had volunteered to retrieve the book from the Guild. Unluckily for the College, Jeand was known for getting… sidetracked.

_As I recall, he had spent a day in Whiterun marketplace before actually BRINGING the book…_ Viarmo thought to himself, remembering those war torn forlorn days gone by…

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Viarmo sat in one of the library chairs, returning to task before him. "_'O, Olaf, our subjucator… The One-Eyed betrayer…'_" he recited once more, trying to call the memories forth, that is until he was interrupted by the slamming of the College's main door.

"By the Divines! Can't anyone see that I am in need of peace! Without Olaf's Verse, I have to carefully recall the words for the ceremony, and that requires silence!" the Altmer Headmaster yelled as he arose to give the offending party a piece of his mind. Oh the many angered lectures he could've given to the miscreant; the importance of the ceremony, the history of King Olaf, the life-threatening struggles to actually retrieve the Verse the first time, all of them died upon Viarmo's lips as he saw WHO it was that'd interrupted him. Clad in black/deep red robes of a magic user, simple boots, a hide bracer upon the solitary arm, and a dark hood to help obscure the figure's light sensitive eyes and reddish-brown hair, stood the only other person in the Bards College who knew of the importance of King Olaf's Verse; Jeand One-Arm, Dean of Skalds at the Bards College, Companion of many a Hero during the Civil War, Apprentice Mage at the College of Winterhold, Thane in one third of Skyrim's holds, and the Last Dragonborn.

Jeand merely smiled at the stupefied Headmaster, before reaching into one of the robes' satchels, saying "I apologise for my rudeness, sir, but I just thought that this…" the Reachman pulled out an old, brown, leather bound book and waving it in front of Viarmo "…would probably be of some help, wouldn't you say so?" the Breton/Nord finished with a laugh.

"The Verse. My word, Jeand, you never cease to amaze." Viarmo retorted to his colleague as he grabbed the book, and sat back down, pouring over the words the two had added many years ago. "The festival should be able to go off without a hitch this year, thanks to you once more." he continued, eyes never leaving the pages as Jeand took the seat opposite him, half shrugging as he did. "It wasn't as bad as last time." the dragon in mortal form replied, taking a bite out of an apple as he did so.

It was a few hours later, the sun having set some time ago, until Viarmo had finished re-familiarising himself with the passages, before the elder of the two snapped the book shut. "Which reminds me…" the Headmaster started, gaining the attention of the Dean, "this year, many wish to hear your additions to the Poetic Edda…"

"Viarmo… You know as well as I do why that isn't the best of ideas…" Jeand sighed. It was one of the things the two of them had debated over since the loss of Jeand's right arm, and the subsequent end of his adventuring career; Viarmo argued that even as a bard, as Dragonborn, Jeand deserved his place in the Poetic Edda, but the Reachman had countered that many wouldn't want to hear praise of someone such as him.

As both sides were unwilling to have another argument over the matter, Viarmo merely saying, "All I ask is that you think about it…" before he left to retire for the night. The last thing Jeand heard Viarmo say to him being "And remember, no snacking on any of the initiates…"

/

That night, Jeand walked the parapets of Castle Dour, watching the auroras dance and flicker in the night sky. It was one of the things he had always loved about his homeland; on crystal clear nights, the sky lit up in a brilliant dance of colours for all below to bear witness. Sometimes he even went to the Throat of the World, use Clear Skies, and just sit and watch the spectacular with Paarthunax, Odahviing (if he were around), and Durnehviir. It truly was a marvel.

That night however, the auroras held a different meaning than the one before, as Viarmo's words about his additions to the Edda echoed within the Reachman's mind as the lights danced above him… Awakening within him…

Memories long since past…


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer; I don't own Skyrim or the Elder Scrolls, and I am making no profit from these works. These stories were inspired by Morninglight's Ysraneth's Tales series.

Chapter 1:

_/Scene Break/_

Born during the Great War, 30 years before Alduin's return to Skyrim, Jeand was a part of a family of Reachmen farmers and miners. They had lived in Karthwasten, originally, with Jeand's father, unable to work due to a mishap some years earlier, and his elder brother living in Markarth's Warrens most days, tending to the family's stall within the Dwemer built city. Like most Reachmen, Jeand's family prayed to both Azura and Hircine, along with their clan specific deities. It was a simple life.

It was when Jeand was three that the complexities of the world revealed themselves to him. Before then he had known that Nords were the ones in charge; it was the Nords who hired on Bretons as servants, and who used Reachmen as slaves. The young Jeand never really thought anything of it, he had never known any different. But when the Markarth Uprising occurred, and the King in Rags sat upon Mournful Throne, Jeand saw the effects of the change. Now the natives of the Reach, no matter which race they belonged to, were treated equally, able to buy any property they wished, work where they wanted, etc. Though, admittedly, due to the short-lived independent Reach Kingdom, many had stuck with the jobs they'd had before the Uprising, just with better pay. For Jeand the biggest difference was that his father and brother were able to get a proper place within the city, and Jeand was able to stay with them certain months.

Then, the Great War ended.

Whilst the War itself held no immediate impact upon Madanach's kingdom, it had provided the perfect opportunity for the rebellion to occur. Still, many had assumed that, and would have preferred if, the Empire would win. When they had succeeded to the Dominion's demands, all of Tamriel felt it. For the Reach Kingdom, it was when Ulfic Stormcloak retook Markarth for Igmund, son of the previous Jarl, and the one to hold the position when the Reach was once again a Hold of Skyrim. It was on that day, when Jeand was five years of age, staying with his father and brother, did he understand the cruelties of the world. All was peaceful within the city; Jeand was playing with some of the local children, whilst the other resident members of his family were tending the stall, selling food from the farm. Then the world erupted in sound. A thundering boom echoed off the stone work, demolishing the first set of buildings in its path, it had felt to the young Breton/Nord that the entire world had been consumed by the sound. People ran and cowered; none of them knew what was happening. As such, they were too panicked to notice the men and women with steel in their hands cutting a bloody swath through the people until it was too late.

At the head of this army was a man, one whose face Jeand would never forget; hard features, auburn hair, serious brow, and a strong jaw with the beginnings of a beard. Later Jeand would learn the man's name and his capabilities from the very ones who'd taught him. The one who's cloaked in the storms that crown Dragons from the North. Ulfric Stormcloak. The men and women by his side went through Markarth slaughtering indiscriminately; farmer, soldier, miner, civilians, old, young, men, women, any that were old enough to fight in a war that didn't side with Ulfric were butchered. Many fled, some into the hills of the Reach, others into the neighbouring Holds, the rest were captured, and over time, executed. Jeand's brother and father were both casualties, his brother during the reclamation of Markarth, and his farther sometime after it'd been taken back. Jeand, like so many others orphaned during Ulfric's attack, was sent to live with a Breton family loyal to the Empire located in High Rock.

_/Scene Break/_

For fifteen years Jeand lived as a proper, albeit middle class, Breton, ignoring the Nord part of him that made the boy a child of the Reach, yet at the same, growing a deep dislike for the Nords as a whole, and Ulfric himself, for his deeds in Markarth. Jeand learnt the various trades of the area, focusing more on orating and song weaving than spell chanting or cooking, yet neither did he ignore those arts. Of the magic disciplines, Jeand had a talent for both Illusion and Conjuration, where as his skills with words and instruments lead his adopted family to suggest becoming a Bard, one that the young Reachman took to heart. So it was, that after coming of age, Jeand left to study the Bardic trade.

Travelling across Tamriel (or the mainland at least) Jeand learned of the various Bard trades; poetry, music, satire, eulogy, performance art, and history. Most of his time was spent poring over various books on the subjects. One that stuck out more than the others was the details of the Oblivion crisis nearly 200 years previous; whilst all scholars agreed that it was caused by the Mythic Dawn's assassination of the Septim line, none could understand exactly HOW it'd been stopped, nor how the aspect of Akatosh had been summoned. One such writer, a retired Blade Grandmaster of Redguard descent that'd been a member of the Emperor's honour guard, insisted that it was due to both an unknown prisoner and an illegitimate child of the then recently murdered Emperor Uriel Septim. Many, however, found this account far-fetched at best, mostly because the ex-Blade could never remember the names of those he'd stated were responsible.

Still Jeand had lived a relatively ordinary life. There were few instances of interest during those years he spent travelling. One was his brief time as a student in the College of Whispers, mostly as a means of learning new illusion spells to help make his performances livelier. Whilst there, he also met with a Khajit apprentice by the name of J'Zargo, and the two formed an unlikely friendship with eachother. There was also the few instances when he was thrown into one jail cell or another for various reasons. Then there was also the time that Jeand stumbled upon the lost priory of the Knights of the Nine, where he heard stories of the Last Crusader of the Knights, and how they, and the Relics of the Divines, had mysteriously vanished a few months after the final defeat of Umaril the Unfathomed. The only mementos of the Crusader were the large Aylied sword that decorated the undercroft of the priory, and their armor and weapons; the ones used whilst they had been out questing for the Relics.

Yet it was when he had found himself face-to-face with other Reachmen that prompted his journey back to his homeland of Skyrim.

_/Scene Break/_

"Thank you for allowing me into your home." Jeand expressed as he sat amongst a family of Reachmen that'd escaped the slaughter of Markarth.

"Oh it is no trouble at all. You are a son of the Reach, you are most welcome here if you ever have need of it." the patriarch of the family, a large, heavy-set older man by the name of Paurelc, boasted.

Jeand had been passing through the area near Kvatch, seeing the remains of what was once an Oblivion Gate, when he'd heard a cry for help from a small child. Rushing over he saw a young girl being attacked by a small pack of wolves. Seeing no one else that could help, the young Reachman leapt in to aid the child. Conjuring forth his familiar, as well as drawing attention away from the girl with his antics, Jeand engaged the canine adversaries in a contest of claws, fangs, spells, and tricks. He had been faring quite well, but sadly, not good enough, mostly because he carried only a rusted Iron Dagger, which was snapped in twain when he'd been defending himself from the apparent Alpha's teeth. It was only when the girl's father arrived, mace in hand that the two were able to beat back the wolves, and retreat to the Lochtav Farm.

Upon entering, Jeand noticed the small shrine above the hearth and asked, "Does the Bloodmoon bless your home as well?"

"Ah, a fellow hunter of Hircine I see… Forgive me, but you don't look the part…" Paurelc stated to Jeand, both sizing up the other.

It wasn't until Jeand confessed that he was a "born worshiper of Hircine, among others, such as Dibela, and Azura…" did Paurelc's features became friendly towards the unofficial bard.

"Azura, Hircine, and of Breton heritage, as well. Why didn't you say you were kin from the Reach?" Paurelc laughed

_/Scene Break/_

After hours of conversing, even joining in on the hunt in the late afternoon sun, Jeand was invited to stay the night, to which he accepted. Thanking the man as he sat, Jeand was privy to the Lochtav family ritual of giving thanks before a meal

"We thank the noble beast, whose life was shed for the meat before us, so that our lives may continue…" at this Paurelc indicated to the deer carcass on the table, the spoils of the hunt. "We thank Hircine, Lord of the Wild Hunt, for the opportunity given to us in felling our prey…" Paurelc then bowed slightly to the shrine above the hearth. "We Thank Lady Azura, Lady of the Dawn and the Dusk, for sending forth our kinsman of the Reach Jeand, in a most dire time for our most precious of treasures." Paurelc then indicated to both Jeand, and the young girl he'd had a hand in saving earlier that day. Jeand didn't know how to respond to that, but gave a small bow to Azura just the same. "And finally, we give thanks to Madanach, the King in Rags, and pray for his eventual return to the Mournful Throne." Paurelc concluded and he and his family started to eat the Venison before them. That is until they noticed that Jeand had yet to take a portion for himself.

"Jeand, aren't you hungry?" the eldest daughter, Delphine, named in honour of the woman who had helped Paurelc and his wife escape from the Stormcloaks as they fled Skyrim years ago, posed to her sister's almost saviour.

"No, it's not that…" Jeand replied with a sad smile over the memories of that time nearly two and a half decades prior.

"Then what is it son?" Paurelc asked his downcast guest.

"It's just, I was in Markarth when it fell… I lost my brother and father in the attack that killed Madanach…" Jeand admitted, only to realise what he'd exactly said, and suddenly looked up from his empty plate to see, instead of horror and sorrow over the Lochtav family having lost their king, everyone had a look of bemusement over Jeand's statement.

"Ah, then you must not have heard then?" Paurelc enquired after seeing the confusion spread across Jeand's face.

"Heard what?"

Paurelc's, indeed all of the Lochtav family's, feature grew sinister then, as the patriarch answered with "Not everyone was killed that day. Some, like my family and yourself, managed to make it out of Skyrim, in one fashion or another. Others fled into the hills, and took up the ancient name of Foresworn…"

"Those whose faith are forsaken, even within their own homes…" Jeand said, showing that he knew the term well. He himself had been foresworn after he was adopted, and he knew of a few of the other orphans from the Reach whom had been the same. But he never knew that a majority of his people had claimed the name for themselves, though in hindsight, with what sparse news he'd heard out of the Reach in recent years, he wasn't surprised.

Paurelc nodded before continuing. "They attack any and all that they consider to be an outsider of the Reach, and have been waging war with Markarth since that day. However, what few know is that many more of our kin were taken prisoner by the Silver-bloods, and are being kept within Cidna Mine. For what reason, only those poisonous Silver-bloods know that, but what we do know is that the most prominent prisoner is non-other than the King in Rags himself."

For the rest of the night, those words echoed within Jeand's head…

_/Scene Break/_

The following morning, Jeand bid his farewell to the Lochtav family, along with thanks for the bed and meal, and made a start for the border between Cyrodill and Skyrim. Normally the journey wouldn't take that long, either by cart or by foot, however recent developments, not only with the Thalmer's meddling in the affairs of those not apart of the Aldmeri Dominion, especially travellers, making the journey an unnecessary hassle, but in recent months, the word from Skyrim was that a Civil War had erupted between Nords that didn't wish to follow the White Gold Concordant, and those still loyal to the Empire and the Imperial Legion. As such, the usual routes to and from Skyrim were closed, barring special circumstances, until one side emerged victorious.

All of this meant that Jeand's return to Skyrim was delayed by a couple of years as the Reachman searched for alternate ways to penetrate the barriers, both the naturally formed and constructed, keeping Jeand from the land of his birth. Mind you the method of entry wasn't all that difficult to uncover; criminals, especially smugglers, tended to thrive during wartime, for various reasons. No, Jeand's main problem was gold, specifically the amount of Septims required to actually get across was downright theft. As such, in order to pay for the trip, Jeand had to sell almost all of his possessions, save for some sack clothing for both modesty and protection from the elements, even then, all Jeand could purchase was entry that was dangerously close to an Imperial guarded crossing.

_/Scene Break/_

Once across, it was simple for Jeand to avoid getting caught… at least at first… It was when he was getting his bearings that Jeand ran afoul of an Imperial Legion prisoner transport. At first, there was silence, an uncomfortable, awkward silence. Then, when a Legion soldier stationed at the crossing Jeand had just snuck past arrived to inform the transport of another prisoner, specifically a smuggler, all attention was then focused on Jeand, the state of his attire, and where exactly it was he had come from, along with the information about the crossing's latest prisoner, it wasn't hard to figure out what the Reachman had done.

"Oh for the love of Azu..." was all Jeand managed to say, before a swift blow to the head sent him to the realm of unconsciousness...


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer; I don't own Skyrim or the Elder Scrolls, and I am making no profit from these works. These stories were inspired by Morninglight's Ysraneth's Tales series.

Chapter 2:

_/Scene Break/_

Jeand's recollections were ceased, both by the phantom pain the memory brought forth, as well as the first hints of dawn were starting to appear upon the horizon.

_Is that how long I was dwelling on the past…?_ the ageless Reachman thought to himself, stretching as he did so to work the stiffness out of his joints.

As he watch the sun rise, and feel the subsequent sting the infernal orb brought to his blood, Jeand pondered on Viarmo's words from the night before. Maybe he should add his story to the Edda, he could write, heck even perform, it himself…

_After all, I maybe ageless, but I'm not immortal… Serana showed me that… My end may come, and none would know, really know, the story of the Last Dragonborn…_

Below him, the preparations for the King Olaf festival were in full swing, as decorations were being hung, occasion appropriate food and beverages were filling vendor's stalls, and the greater effigy of King Olaf One-Eye was being constructed. Whilst the festival itself was still a few days away, preparations had to be made early due to the amount of work required. Watching it all, with amber eyes, Jeand spotted some children at play, and remembered the joy and anticipation his own little adopted angels had whenever he'd recount his travels to them…

_Has it really been so long since they passed away…?_

Shaking his head, Jeand headed back to the College so as to prepare for classes.

_/Scene Break/_

"AAAARRRGGGHHH! It's no use!" Viarmo cried out as he rested his head within his hands.

The Verse of King Olaf was complete, that was fine for the aged elf. Instead the problem was Jeand. Over the years the people of Solitude had been bugging the Headmaster about when the Immortal Dragonborn (many believed his youth was due to his dragon soul, a myth helped spread by the man himself) was going to tell his story to the people of Solitude. Viarmo kept saying one thing or another to either shift the topic, placate the masses, or to drop the matter all together, yet recently the Jarl had ordered Viarmo to get Jeand to tell his tale at this year's festival, or else the Bard's College would no longer be allowed to remain open.

Viarmo's trouble with the Verse had held his focus all night, and now with that done, he had put his tired mind to the task of figuring out a way of convincing Jeand to tell his story sometime in the next couple of days, but any idea Viarmo came up with he knew wouldn't work. One such idea was saying that the College was at risk, yet Jeand would most likely say that if Solitude didn't want the Bard's College, then one of the other Holds would happily accept them. The rest just followed the same pattern after that…

Deciding to turn in, and tackle the problem after some decent rest, Viarmo got to the door just as Jeand was coming in from his night atop Castle Dour. Paying no head to his fellow professor, Viarmo tried to pass him by without a word, yet was stopped when Jeand said, "During the festival, I'll add my story to the Edda…"

_/Scene Break/_

_…to be continued in_ 'A Bard's Pilgrimage; Journeying with Faendal'_…_


End file.
